


Shrift

by ipso_facto, mastress (ipso_facto)



Series: Liss Trevelyan [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 14:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4923481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipso_facto/pseuds/ipso_facto, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ipso_facto/pseuds/mastress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<i>Liss</i>.”</p>
<p>The word is whisper, a soft touch at the edge of consciousness. She blinks, and the shadows of memory scatter, slipping back into darkness beyond the balcony railing. Her skirt swirls as she turns. The wisps of sheer fabric slide against stone, twisting to wrap her ankles in chains of shimmering starlight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shrift

**Author's Note:**

> The other day ballades was giving out prompts, and she was nice enough to send this one my way:
> 
> _She lies with the speed of a falling star, elegant and beautiful and cutting._
> 
> It took a little while, and a little help from mellyflori, but this happened. It’s not required that you’ve read Young Hearts for this to make sense, but it probably helps.

“ _Liss_.”

The word is whisper, a soft touch at the edge of consciousness. She blinks, and the shadows of memory scatter, slipping back into darkness beyond the balcony railing. Her skirt swirls as she turns. The wisps of sheer fabric slide against stone, twisting to wrap her ankles in chains of shimmering starlight.

His face is only half in light, revealing nothing. She can tell from the fire flickering behind him in her quarters that he is clad simply in trousers and a shirt, his ever-present armor for once laid aside. The warm glow softens him, sands away the earned imperfections. And just like that she’s overwhelmed by a flash of images so vibrant they might have been yesterday instead of years in the past.

Something sparks in her chest, sharp and jagged, and she gasps at the sudden biting edge of it. Half-remembered voices float through her mind, a litany of lost chances, broken vows and unanswered prayers. If she were less than she’s become she might indulge it; the wave of nostalgia is so strong it could sweep her feet out from under her in an instant. But she can’t relax her guard, not even here. Not with so many watching and so much at stake. She doesn’t wear the mantle of ‘Inquisitor’ lightly, just as she’d never been simply 'a Templar’ or 'the Whispering Sister’. They’re all of them more than titles, her mastery of each honed and strengthened, shaped to fill a perpetually empty space. And all of them in their own way a prison.

She hides her struggle in a quiet smile, palm outstretched in invitation. Her wrist glows pale in the moonlight, so small and delicate-seeming; yet one more illusion of the night. He shifts and his eyes are bright, taking in the loosened waves of her hair, her form under the fitted fabric. He reaches for her with one hand, and her fingers fold around his. For a moment he looks as if he might raise them to his lips, brush a kiss against her scarred skin. But he seems to think better of it, waiting instead on her cue. He’s filled with something she almost recognizes but can’t name, and his cheeks burn with it. She catches the smell of it in her nose, sharp and strong.

She draws him outwards, step by step, his golden eyes liquid as he follows her lead. A few more steps and the railing is at her back. She pauses and he draws close, only the space of a breath between them now. Her eyes trace the fullness of his lips, the jagged shock of his scar. He reaches to cup her cheek, fingers beginning to thread themselves into her hair before she stops him, placing both hands to his chest in warning.

He freezes, then, and the tilt of his head is a question she is ill-equipped to answer. In spite of their attempts at truthfulness, he is blinded by her: by fire- and starlight, silk and steel. He looks and sees a faded charcoal-sketch of memory, soft touches and smudged curves. But they are neither of them what they once were. In her, there is no room for softness. Here and now, her lines are hard, _cutting_. He’s a fool, and she even more of one for allowing them this. But, Maker, she  _wants_  it.

She ignores the words crowding behind her lips. “Dance with me,” she says instead, catching a strain of music from the tavern in the courtyard below floating up on the breeze. She waits for him to wince at the hoarse rasp of her ruined voice, but his face is still, eyes locked on hers. If anything, it hurts her more, this care she hasn’t earned. 

Like a good soldier he obeys the order, one arm sliding to circle around the small of her back and draw her in, strong and sure. The other takes her right hand in a loose grip. He’s so gentle with her now, in words and in manner. So different from their first reintroduction. She wants to tell him that she won’t break, but the longer his hands are on her, the less sure she is in the truth of that. Her skin begins to prickle, goose-flesh rising and spreading until it’s stretched too tightly across the frame of her. In his arms, she feels as delicate as glass, as if with one wrong move she could shatter, reflecting light over Skyhold like a million twinkling stars.

Her breath catches in her throat as they start to turn, the pressure from his arm sliding her into the cradle of his hips. She feels more than hears his sharp inhalation. She alone bears witness to the trembling of his limbs as they glide across the floor. The thunder of his heartbeat echoes her own.

“Cullen,” she tries, uncertain of where to begin.

He hums against her temple. It is acknowledgment, not response. She opens her mouth, then shuts it. Tries again and is thwarted by the feel of his lips on her brow, warm and soft. They linger. He seems in no great hurry to speak, and yet she feels as if she might burst from the pressure welling up inside of her.

She almost jumps when she hears his voice, low and husky in her ear. “After the attack at Haven, when I - when we - found you in the snow. Liss, I-” he pauses, draws in a shaky breath. “For all those years, I thought you dead, and yet in spite of my mistakes and against all reason, the Maker saw fit to bring you back to me. It didn’t matter if you hated me. At least you were  _alive_.”  His arms tighten, pulling her against him. Their bodies share a hundred points of contact, a hundred connections he’ll force her to break. “And then to lose you again so soon. I thought…”

“That my death, too, was because of you? A punishment?” Their movement stills, and she draws their joined hands toward her mouth. She presses gentle kisses to his fingertips, one by one. At his ragged gasp, she raises her eyes to his. Looking up at him from under lowered lashes, she draws the tip of his thumb into her mouth, laving it with gentle strokes of her tongue.

“ _Liss_ ,” he groans, and the undisguised need in his voice draws an answering pull from deep in her belly. Cruel of her to test their limits so when they are both such fragile creatures.

“Cullen.” She rises up on her toes and loops her arms around his neck. Softly, she pushes their foreheads together. He drops one hand to her waist, thumb rubbing small circles into the fabric above her hipbone. “Whatever you are guilty of, I cannot offer you absolution.” His breath flutters across her lips, and he buries his other hand in her hair, presses his fingers to her scalp. “No more than you can offer it to me.”

“I am not looking for absolution,” he growls. His fingers tangle in her hair, tilting her chin up. Her neck stretches long and taut, and his tongue flicks out to taste her pulse where it hammers in her throat. It is a lie, she knows, but she can’t fault him for it. Not with her own poised on her lips.

“Neither am I.”


End file.
